


Aboard My Flying Ship

by 2babyturtles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dream Sequence, Dream Sex, Erotica, Fantasy, I dream in Johnlock, It would be porn if I knew how to write that, M/M, Mild Smut, Soft-Erotica, dream - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 02:25:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11980113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe, and his next inhale was mostly the warm scent of John lingering closely on his tongue. He couldn’t taste him, quite, but he wanted to. Something about the way John leaned into his touch made Sherlock acutely aware of how close they were. It didn’t seem close enough.





	Aboard My Flying Ship

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a dream I had which is real weird to me because WHY AM I DREAMING THIS?! But when I told AlixxBlack about it her advice was...well to "follow my dreams".

The walls of the castle were haphazard. Perfectly in line, but as if each stone was placed without consideration of where the previous one was. The result was a jagged, uneven display lining the otherwise neat hallways. It seemed strange that the floors were wooden, with great beams of oak placed together. The effect was altogether disconcerting, despite the warm candlelight from sconces on the wall every few feet.

Sherlock didn’t realize the castle was aboard a ship until it took off, lurching through the sky as great white sails jolted open. The moonlight helped tremendously, providing cool currents that propelled the ship through the sky. When they finally reached the height of their climb, the ship leveled out and the ride became tremendously smoother. Sherlock found himself drawn to the nearest castle window and peered outside, leaning on the stone windowsill.

The sight horrified him.

Two decks extended like hangars away from the castle and rows of military personnel marched on each side. On one side, the men and women simply performed drills. On the other, they appeared to be escorting someone by force. When the movement stilled enough for Sherlock to see who it was, he recognized John with a gun pressed to his neck. The men who directly bore him along the ship were much taller than he was, and he was hoisted uncomfortably by his arms.

Terror seized the scream from Sherlock’s throat and no sound came out when he opened his mouth. He forced himself to retreat from the window and glanced along the corridor he was in, trying to decide whether left or right would get him there faster. Since John was being hauled along the left deck, he decided to follow the most natural assumption and took off running down the hallway to his left.

Despite his fear, he managed to maintain a sense of wits about him and stopped to listen at the door. Hearing nothing, he pushed it open and made his way down the stairs on the other side. When he finally emerged into the starlight, he realized that the climb down to the bottom deck was further than he thought. The deck he’d reached was still a story or two above where John was being threatened and something in the demeanor of the soldiers told Sherlock he didn’t have much time left.

A low banister, neatly polished and glistening, was all that kept passengers or crew members safely contained on this deck, and Sherlock eyed the drop to the bottom deck. It wasn’t quite straight. If he jumped forward from the rounded balcony, he’d drop through the clouds and fall who knows how far. However, Sherlock was well aware of his own physical abilities and if he pushed himself off hard at an angle, he could make it to the edge of the deck where John was.

The decision was made when the man with a gun to John’s throat suddenly pushed him backwards and John stumbled towards the edge. Sherlock knew he couldn’t reach him in time if he turned back and tried to find a safer way down and he couldn’t just watch John be thrown overboard.

Shifting carefully over the edge of the banister, Sherlock took aim, angling his body as directly towards John as he could. He was close enough that he could hear them arguing now and the rising tensions didn’t bode well for John’s survival. Sherlock took a breath and shoved off hard, launching himself through the night sky.

Pain shot through his knees as he hit the ground, despite his careful roll. Unfortunately, Sherlock’s presence seemed only to anger the soldiers more and as he turned his head to look, he only saw John’s feet leaving the ground and a terrified scream as he was hauled backwards over the edge. Sherlock had never moved so fast.

Tearing through the approaching men and women, their military insignia now gleaming threateningly, like a thousand eyes pinned into the uniforms of a dozen soldiers, Sherlock pushed himself ever closer to John and those holding him. For his part, John was working hard to fend the attackers off, kicking and biting and wriggling as best he could. Unfortunately, every kick into someone’s face or stomach only propelled John further backwards, and he gave up that endeavor almost immediately.

His eyes locked with Sherlock’s and the terror there was gut-wrenching. Sherlock forced himself even harder, leaning into a run as he grabbed the back of one man’s uniform and pulled him away from John. They only had time to smile wearily at each other, grateful to at least be together, before the swarm of military personnel was too much and Sherlock was caught, too.

The hard railing dug into Sherlock’s back as he was pushed over it and slid into the sky. He reached out towards where John had last been and was surprised to find a hand there waiting for him. The plummet was terrifying but they clasped themselves together, pulling hard on their locked fingers to draw their bodies closer, too.

Before they could say anything—if, indeed, they could fight their words past the whipping air—they hit the ground. It wasn’t a soft landing but plush greens made it better than falling onto London’s cobblestone streets. Looking around, however, Sherlock realized that they were impossibly still in the sky, somewhere far above London. His attention didn't stay on his surroundings very long though.

“My God,” John breathed, clutching a stitch in his side and closing his eyes tightly. His cheeks were red and flushed and his heavy brows furrowed darkly. “We’re not dead,” he gasped through a strangled laugh. “We’re not bloody dead.”

Sherlock had landed on his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows. He smiled weakly at his companion and reached an arm out to wrap around John’s torso. “You can’t do that to me,” he demanded. His smile made it clear that he was teasing but his tone was deadly serious. “What would I do if something happened to you?”

“Something did happen to me,” John replied, patting Sherlock’s arm comfortingly. “To us. We fell off a bloody ship.” He turned his head and peered at Sherlock.

The crashing waves of celestial bodies seemed more present in John’s eyes than in the sky above them—or around them, as the case may be—and his expression filled Sherlock with relief.

“You’re not hurt?” Sherlock finally asked, pushing himself towards John to survey him more closely.

“No,” the doctor replied quietly, his gaze still locked on Sherlock’s face. “Not badly.”

Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe, and his next inhale was mostly the warm scent of John lingering closely on his tongue. He couldn’t taste him, quite, but he wanted to. Something about the way John leaned into his touch made Sherlock acutely aware of how close they were. It didn’t seem close enough.

His voice was heavy and thick, like it was choked by the crimson blush that spread through his neck and face. “John, I-“

“Shh,” John interrupted, leaning forward further and pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s.

Lying face to face, their chests pressed against each other and their legs intertwined, the fear of their recent endeavor was entirely replaced with desire. Each offered a strong, hard, throbbing demonstration of their lust and when their lips met it was as if they were taking the first taste of a meal they couldn’t wait for. The joy at finally experiencing something they’d wanted for so long mingled with the dirtiness of grasping through each other’s hair and swirling their tongues over the other’s lips.

John traced Sherlock’s perfect Cupid’s bow with his tongue and Sherlock bucked naturally. Taking advantage of his greater size, he pushed John onto his back and straddled him, leaning down to kiss him as his fingers darted ravenously beneath John’s shirt. Soft chest hair greeted him and a moan escaped through his softly parted lips. Growling in his chest, John pushed firmly against Sherlock, taking the top position firmly and eliciting a satisfied smile from the detective.

“You’re too slow,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear as he ripped the front of Sherlock’s shirt open. “I’ve wanted you for a very long time and I don’t want to wait anymore.” He sat up to watch, his hips moving against Sherlock’s in an uncontrollable rhythm.

Smiling, Sherlock clutched John’s collar and drew him in again. He reached over John’s back and grabbed the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over John’s head to reveal his naked torso. He leaned forward, picking himself up off the ground and yanking his arms free of what remained of his own shirt.

“Can we take turns?” Sherlock asked as John reached for the buttons of his trousers.

John’s eyes returned to Sherlock’s and he nodded, a devilish smile crossing his face. “If you think I only want to have you, then you’re mad,” he said. “I want you to have me.”

Lust rushed through Sherlock’s stomach in fitful knots and he swatted John’s hands away, removing his trousers easily and making quick work of a task that was taking far too long. He shrugged casually when John shot him a playfully questioning glance. Reaching forward, John pulled on Sherlock’s hip, indicating he should flip over, and removed his own trousers.

Naked, they stared at each other for just a moment longer before Sherlock did as he was asked and rolled over, pushing himself to his hands and knees. The soft flicker of fear that always comes with this sort of vulnerability washed through Sherlock’s stomach and he shivered with delight.

Moving slowly at first, John was careful, entering him with deft movements. His hands on Sherlock’s hips made Sherlock crazy and he pushed himself backward, wanting more. John gasped slightly but responded with gentle thrusts, moving faster as they settled more to each other. When he finished, he certainly wasn’t done.

Shaking and panting, he pushed himself to his feet, pulling Sherlock with him. The detective spun and kissed him hard on the mouth. Sherlock helped support John as he moved him backwards, pushing him firmly against a wall they hadn’t noticed before.

“Turn around,” Sherlock growled softly into John’s ear. The man was quick to comply. “Let me know if it’s too much,” he added.

A shiver ran down John’s spine and he nodded, realizing he hadn’t paid much attention to the front of Sherlock’s body. He had no idea what to expect and could hardly contain his eagerness. Sherlock reached his hands towards the wall on either side of John even as John bent forward himself, bracing himself on his elbows.

Sherlock took his time, moving slowly before pushing harder. He moaned again, and ran his tongue up the part of John’s back that he could reach, kissing his neck and shoulders. John’s responding growl and moan drew a smile from Sherlock, who moved faster and harder. Sound ripped from both their chests as Sherlock finished and withdrew himself slowly.

Grateful for the soft greens of whatever they’d landed on, Sherlock sunk onto the ground, his legs feeling more like jelly than anything more suitable for supporting him. John turned to look at him, a dazed smile on his face. “Sherlock? Are you okay?” he asked. His voice didn’t match his expression. His tone was hard and serious and full of concern. “It’s almost eleven, are you alright?”

Sherlock cocked his head and peered into John’s face. He kept his eyes focused there as the sky and stars seemed to melt and he felt himself sinking back through the ground. “John?” he asked, reaching forward to take his hand. “John!”

* * *

 

A shout ripped from his throat and Sherlock bolted upright in bed. He panted heavily and looked around the room, confused to see he was at home in 221B.

“I’m right here, Sherlock, are you alright? You never sleep this late.” John was standing beside the bed, his eyes full of worry as he watched his friend wake up. “You’ve been groaning and freaking out the past half hour. I thought you’d gone out until I heard my name. Are you alright?”

A blush crept across Sherlock’s face but he forced it away as he realized he’d been dreaming. “Of course,” he said. “Thank you, John.”


End file.
